Pieces of Her

A man sees his young wife      through a camera lens                         she’s wearing floral dress.                                 tilts her chin forward.                          he snaps, captures 

alas, the end result by our 

fledgling photographer 

skims away the top of her head

I think how could he?

after all this time,

now that she is gone 

we understand, 

the photo makes sense

we are fragments   

none of us ever truly whole 

as she will never be 

again, to us

Imagining

I have wondered how it feels

to become a widow

uttering these words 

sounds profane, I know

forgive me

indulge me

but I’d be a liar if I said I never

imagined the call,

a strange sound from a

distant room,

or no sound from any room 

required to stand 

in a line of black

the funeral director

previously a stranger

would cup my elbow with his palm

guide me to the designated front row chair

Afterward, I’d organize my dresser

locate precious papers 

re-read homemade greeting cards 

signed with a heart

friends would comfort

and tolerate me

as I sobbed 

into a glass of white wine

I’d set to work on the house

scrub woodwork

take down lace curtains,

(a job formerly his,)

wash them on gentle

iron as needed

climb a step ladder 

hang them back up,

the room would sparkle so

that it would hurt your eyes 

he would have been impressed with

my industriousness

though he might cringe 

when my spaghetti sauce

botched his mother’s special recipe 

the cats would move in on me,

permanent and needy 

quilts upon a death grip 

a nudge toward the middle

toward the edge